


The Fever

by MediumSizedFountain (jncar)



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Relationship, Shippy Gen, multishipping is what i do, pre-garcy, pre-garcyatt, pre-lyatt, rufus lives, so the subtext is always gonna be there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 18:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14754359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jncar/pseuds/MediumSizedFountain
Summary: During the move to the team's new home, Flynn falls ill, and Lucy feels guilty.





	The Fever

**Author's Note:**

> If time permits this will be the first installment in a series about Flynn gradually trying to bond with the team after they save Rufus. I'm on Tumblr as mediumsizedfountain. And I multi-ship garcy, flogan, lyatt, and garcyatt, so even though this series is gen the subtext will be there.

 

Lucy knows she shouldn't feel guilty – that she isn't to blame. The idiot man should have asked for help instead of trying to push through it. Even so, she let's Flynn's illness weigh on her.

If it had been any other 72 hours she, or someone else, would have noticed his pain and fatigue sooner. Would have noticed the fever before it got so high.

But it wasn't any other 72 hours. It was the 72 hours in which they mourned Rufus, dealt with the complete mind-fuck of meeting their future selves (Though maybe not anymore, because in that timeline they never saved Rufus, so they'll never really be those people, will they? Lucy still can't wrap her mind around it all.), the danger of snatching Rufus before his death and bringing him home safe, the elation and celebration when they succeeded, and then the chaos of trying to move out of the bunker to their new home before Rittenhouse came for them. They nearly made it – they were on their last trip back to the bunker for the final load of supplies when Emma's goons attacked.

And so, it wasn't until halfway through their first full day at their new home, a decommissioned military training facility in the northern California mountains, that Lucy noticed how pale Flynn looked, and how he grunted in pain every time he moved.

She'd rested her hand against his cheek and felt it burn, and immediately called out for Denise to come help.

It's been more than 24 hours since they got him into his bed with a fever of 103°, and the fever still hasn't broken.

An hour ago Denise got back from wherever it is top secret operatives get their medical supplies with IV fluids and strong antibiotics, and somehow Jiya knew exactly how to insert an IV needle, so Flynn is finally getting the liquids and medicine he needs.

But Lucy can't seem to tear herself away from his bedside.

Flynn has been injured before – even shot! And he always bounced back as terrifyingly strong and capable as ever. He was like some sort of demi-god. A Hercules, with boundless strength to go on extraordinary adventures.

And yet an infection from a bullet in old San Francisco is enough to lay him low. He is mortal, after all.

That's the part she hates the most – knowing that Flynn, the unstoppable, unconquerable, Flynn – is just as fragile as the rest of them. That she can lose him just as quickly as she's lost so many other people she cares about over the past few months.

It doesn't help any that her future self had refused to answer any questions about Flynn except to say, “Don't worry about Flynn.” What the hell does that mean? And why did she get that _look_ in her eyes when she said it?

Lucy sucks in a breath of surprise when Flynn turns his head and murmurs something in Croatian. He's been doing that from time to time, today. He's only been fully conscious and aware for about four of the past twenty-four hours. The rest of the time he's been asleep or muttering deliriously in his native tongue.

It makes her wish she knew how to speak it. But there aren't exactly distance-learning courses in Croatian that she can access from their secret hideout. (She's going to live the rest of her life in places like this; she's very nearly reconciled herself to that fact.)

She reaches for the thermometer and rests the sensor against Flynn's temple. His face is covered in stubble in a way that she hasn't seen since long before he joined their team, and his hair is still damp with sweat. 101°. Damn it. A lower fever isn't good enough. This fever needs to be gone.

It isn't time to change the dressing on his wound, again, so instead she grabs a damp wash-cloth and dabs his face with cool water. It probably doesn't help much, but she needs to do _something_ other than just sit here feeling guilty.

Once, just before her future self left back to wherever she and her Wyatt came from, Lucy worked up the nerve to ask outright if her Flynn was dead. Future Lucy got that look again and shook her head. “I shouldn't be surprised you're asking so much about Flynn. He had come to be a very important friend to me, just before Rufus died.” She'd hesitated, then, looking anxious in a way she never had before that moment. “You care about him, but you're still not sure if he has some ulterior motive. I remember how much I wanted to trust him, but how I still felt so uncertain deep down. Your future isn't set in stone, Lucy. Saving Rufus proved that. So I don't want to tell you too much, or make you think you have some sort of destiny waiting for you, because you don't. But I will tell you this: you don't have to doubt Flynn. He will never, ever betray you. I can guarantee that. Don't worry about Flynn.” And she'd left it at that.

While those words eased Lucy's deepest fears, they hadn't been enough. Why shouldn't she worry about Flynn? Doesn't he deserve to have someone to worry about him? She knows that's not what the other her meant. But it's all she can think about right now. Who else does he have left, besides her? So she'll stay by this damn bed until he's better, because he needs to know he's not alone.

At dinnertime she leaves just long enough to wolf down a bowl of overcooked pasta and freshen up in the bathroom (there are two, in the new hideout, and plenty of hot water – it feels like a small miracle) before heading back to her vigil.

She's surprised to find Wyatt waiting outside Flynn's room. He smiles – a little bit hopeful, a little bit apologetic – and says, “I thought you might want some help changing his bandages.”

Lucy smiles back, weary but grateful. The new tension with Wyatt has been... difficult to navigate. Between the disappointment and pain over the secrets he kept about Jessica, the confession of his feelings at a time when his words only made things hurt more, and then the sight of his future self alongside hers as a very united team (and maybe more, though they never said so and neither she nor Wyatt had dared to ask) she has no idea how to relate to him anymore. She still isn't over the pain of his bad choices, but the sight of them working together so well... it was everything she'd dreamed of when Wyatt found her on that World War I battlefield and gave her hope again. But, in spite of what she'd seen, that hope feels as distant as ever. She still cares about him. But she isn't sure she ever loved him – not they way he claims to love her. As to whether or not she can in the future... that isn't a question she is ready to think about, yet.

Hence the tension.

“Thanks,” she says. “That would be great.”

They way he smiles in relief when she accepts his offer makes her heart skip a beat, but she doesn't focus on that. Not today. Not right now.

She takes Flynn's temperature, again. Still 101°, damn it.

She grits her teeth as Wyatt gently pulls back the bandage. The redness and swelling is gone, thank God, and the wound finally looks like it's beginning to close up. At last, something hopeful to latch onto.

“If this is any indication,” Wyatt says, “then Flynn is going to be just fine.”

“Am I? Because I still feel like shit,” Flynn mutters.

Lucy gasps, a little taken aback, as Flynn slowly opens his eyes and blinks up at them. She can't help but smile at the sight. “Hi. Good to see you conscious again.”

Flynn huffs. “I'm not too thrilled about it. Is this fucking medicine even working?”

“Your wound looks a hell of a lot better than it did yesterday, so I'd say yes,” replies Wyatt. “It's only a matter of time before your fever breaks, and then it's all up hill from there.”

“I'll have to take your word for it,” Flynn said, groaning a little. “I still feel like a house got dropped on me.”

Lucy smiles again. “I think if you can bitch with this much coherence, it's a sign that you're definitely on the mend.”

Flynn rolls his eyes and Wyatt smirks.

“If this is the kind of treatment I'll be getting, I should just go back to sleep,” says Flynn.

“You probably should,” Lucy retorts. “It's what you body needs right now, to keep you healing. But I'll go grab you something to eat, first, if you think you can manage it?”

Flynn nods. “I need to. I'll try to get something down.”

Good. At least he is being sensible about this. She looks at Wyatt. “You finish changing his bandage and I'll be right back with some food.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Wyatt says, flashing a teasing smile.

Lucy shakes her head and walks back to the kitchen. She warms up a bowl of canned chicken noodle soup. That's what her mom always gave her when she was sick. (No. Don't think about Mom. No good will come of it.)

When she gets back to Flynn's room, she and Wyatt help Flynn scoot to a seated position and they both catch him up on the progress of setting up their new home while he eats. Lucy tries to ignore the way his hand shakes on the first few bites, and feels an extreme amount of relief when his hand steadies as he makes his way through the bowl.

“Of course, Lucy would know about Rufus fixing the ancient treadmill if she hadn't been spending most of her time in here, watching you sleep,” Wyatt says after a giving a description of the exercise equipment they have in-house this time around.

Flynn looks at her with raised brows and a softness in his gaze that only ever uses with her. “You've been watching over me?” His voice is just as soft as his gaze, and Lucy notices Wyatt looking away awkwardly. She feels warmth rising in her cheeks.

“Until Denise got the antibiotics your fever was so high we were afraid you might start having seizures. So I volunteered to stay with you.” She shrugs, trying to play it off as no big deal. “I mean, I still feel pretty sore from that fight with Emma, so I didn't much feel like moving boxes and furniture, anyway.”

“Thank you.” Flynn somehow manages to make his voice even softer, and Lucy feels as if he's speaking right to her soul. She still has no idea why Flynn trusts her so much – why he believes in her so thoroughly. Not even her encounter with her future-self was enough to explain his loyal faith in her. And it continues to affect her in ways she doesn't fully understand. But their connection is one she wants to continue to explore.

He needs to pull through this. He needs to be okay.

She takes a deep breath, suddenly potently aware of Wyatt being present for this moment of emotional intimacy. “You're welcome,” she murmurs.

Flynn finally seems to realize they aren't alone, and goes back to slurping down his soup. He manages to finish the whole bowl. Another sign that he is healing. Another reason to thank God.

She takes the empty bowl and helps ease Flynn back down to a prone position. Then she check his temperature. 101.4°. Fuck.

“I take it from your frown that my fever is still going strong. But I could have told you that if you'd asked.” Flynn's voice is strained and tired, but at least he's still snarking.

She sighs. “This is taking too long.”

“You can say that, again,” he says with his rough voice.

Wyatt speaks up, “How about I take the night shift, tonight, Lucy? You were up most of the night last night keeping an eye on him. You could use the sleep.”

She's about to brush aside the offer when Flynn says, “Listen to him, Lucy. You need the sleep almost as much as I do.”

She squeezes her lips together and nods. “Okay, then. I guess I'll finally get myself settled into my new room.”

“Good.” Flynn holds her gaze. “You need to take care of yourself. The team needs you. And you deserve a chance to rest.” His voice is soft and earnest again, and it's almost enough to make her feel less guilty about not noticing his illness sooner.

Wyatt says he's going to grab a few books to pass the time, and they leave Flynn alone for the time being. As they walk toward Lucy's new room, she thanks Wyatt for taking the shift. “I know you don't think much of Flynn. It's very thoughtful of you to do this for him.”

“It's not just for him,” Wyatt says, drawing to a stop. He holds her gaze. “The other me... That guy had his act together. He wouldn't tell me much, but he reminded me that I have a lot to make up for. And that the team needs me to get my head on straight. The _whole_ team, which includes Flynn, whether I like it or not. Apparently he really is in this for the long haul. So it's about time I start getting used to having his back. For all our sakes. Besides,” he looks down for a moment, as if considering his words, “I know that you and he are... friends. And I don't want you to worry about losing another person you care about.”

Now this is the Wyatt she developed feelings for in the first place. She only hopes he's here to stay. And that he and Flynn can somehow work out their differences. The team needs both of them. _She_ needs both of them.

“Thank you. That means a lot.” Lucy shuffles her feet. She wishes she could say something equally encouraging to him about his troubles. Wishes she could reassure him about finding Jessica – about getting him the chance to raise his child. But that future is too uncertain. It will only hurt him if she brings it up right now. So she wishes him goodnight and goes into her room.

Someday she's going to have to figure out what's going on with these two strong-willed men in her life. But for tonight, she's just happy they're both alive and at her side.

~ ~ ~

Lucy wakes early, with dim light sneaking through the slats in her blinds. At least they have real windows in this new home.

After a short trip to the bathroom she heads for the kitchen. And finds Flynn. Alone. Opening boxes of supplies and putting things on shelves.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

He freezes, and turns to look at her with one of his trademark smirks. “Good morning to you, too, Lucy.”

She frowns. “Where's Wyatt? Why are you out of bed?” The man was half-dead from fever for the past two days. He should _not_ be up working. Wyatt never should have let this happen.

Flynn shrugs. “My fever broke sometime during the night, and I woke up early. Wyatt was sleeping in that very uncomfortable looking chair in my room, so I told him to go to his own room to get a few more hours of sleep. I took a shower – God, the hot water in this place makes it feel like a five star hotel compared to the bunker. And after a quick breakfast I noticed these boxes and thought I'd help out.”

“Well, stop!” Lucy huffs. “You should still be in bed.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I'm not a child, Lucy. I know my own limits.”

“Do you? Do you really? Because sometimes I seriously doubt that you do,” she replies, folding her arms across her chest. She knows that Flynn used to have little regard for his own well-being, but she hasn't realized that tendency is still going strong.

He sighs, sets down the box he was unloading, and turns, leaning against the counter with his arms folded. “I'm not good with idleness. I'm on the mend, and I am perfectly capable of doing a few simple chores. You don't need to worry about about me, Lucy.”

Not that phrase, again. “That's what _she_ kept telling me, but it didn't help any. It only made things worse.”

His brows knit. “She...? What? I don't follow.”

“The other Lucy,” she says, probably sounding far more exasperated than he deserves. “Every time I asked about you, she said _don't worry about Flynn._ By the end I was ready to scream.”

“You asked about me?” His voice went soft again. Why does he keep doing that? Like he's constantly surprised that someone actually cares about him.

“Of course I asked about you. Because I do worry about you, and I do care, and you really need to stop being surprised by that. And telling me not to worry only made things worse because every time she said it, she looked sad.” Her voice catches in her throat, and she looks away. She knows her own face, damn it. Did the other her really think she could hide her feelings? Because it didn't work. “She looked sad,” Lucy repeats, softly. “I—think that maybe her Flynn was dead. I don't know, for sure. But I do know thinking about you made her sad.” She blinks rapidly to dispel her rising tears before she looks up again.

This time Flynn's face is blank. Unreadable. But he slowly stands up straight, walks over to the table, and sinks down into a chair. “Come sit down,” he says, quiet but firm.

So she sits.

He looks as if he is picking his words carefully before he finally speaks. “Lucy, I'm not going to die, today. Or tomorrow. Or anytime soon. I promise you that. In fact,” he smirks, “I intend to stay alive as long as it takes to get a chance to strangle Emma with my own hands.”

Lucy manages a smile and rolls her eyes. “If anyone could survive out of sheer spite, it would be you.”

He chuckles. “Well, it got me this far.”

Most of her worry has drained away, and her smile no longer feels forced. He's fine. He's going to be fine.

“But, uh,” he adds, “spite isn't the only reason I have, anymore. There are a few more.”

The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver down her spine, and she looks down at her hands. One of these days she really needs to figure out what's going on between them. “That's good to know.”

“Also,” Flynn says, “that Lucy never got Rufus back.”

She looks up and nods. “You're right. Our futures aren't set in stone. We can change things. For the better, I hope.”

“It will be,” he says, wearing a smile that looks almost lighthearted. “And I'll be here for that better future. I promise.”

She squeezes her lips together and takes a deep breath. “Don't make that promise. None of us can really make that promise.”

“Can I at least promise to try my hardest?” He raises his brows expectantly.

She smiles, again. “Yeah. I think that's a promise we can both make.”

He leans back, a look of satisfaction on his face. “It's a deal, then. We'll both try our hardest to stay alive until we see the kind of future we want. And, if it makes you feel any better, I can let the rest of you continue to do all the chores today while I rest.”

This time she grins. “Yes. That will make me feel _much_ better.”

“Okay. Just... don't expect me to go back to bed. Please?” He has a tone in his voice like a little boy asking his mother if he can stay up just a little later.

Lucy shakes her head, still smiling. “Okay. I can live with that.”

For the first time since the move, her shoulders feel light.

_f_


End file.
